


Take Me Away, Make Me Forget and Stick Me Back Where I Came From

by fouryearslaterdrabbles (CheshireCatLife)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, M/M, Malfuctioning Winter Soldier, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Memory-Centric, POV First Person, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 20:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17310980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCatLife/pseuds/fouryearslaterdrabbles
Summary: Bucky doesn't know why he's here. Doesn't know why it's always here. What happened in this alleyway and why does he keep ending up back here?





	Take Me Away, Make Me Forget and Stick Me Back Where I Came From

_No,no,no,no,no,no,NO!_

The trembling of my hands didn’t stop. I looked down to watch the faint tremor of my skeletal fingers with sick fascination, blended into a tangle of worry - this had been going on for hours (too long, too long) and yet it hadn’t got any better. If anything, it was worse. And I’d thought, after all this time, after-

_(Argh! It should have stopped by now; this should be over! Please, god, just let this be over.)_

I looked up to the sky, watched the smoky grey clouds shroud any sight of blue, and breathed in: and out, and in, and out. Thick pollution tainted my lungs like poison, I could feel it (oh god, I _can_ feel it) but I continued to breathe: I needed to relax.

_(Come on! This is the time to focus. You were good at that, weren’t you? Very good. They said you were good at that. And you always believed what they said.)_

The trembling grew stronger, like it was polluting my veins, spreading from my fingers to my forearms to my shoulder to my head until everything was a blur.

_(Blurry, blurry. You remember it being blurry. Everything had been a blur back then.)_

All I could feel was the shudder, the impossible twitching of my muscles, the violence I can’t stop threatening to come to the surface.

_(Even after all this time. Even after-)_

This dank, dark, disgusting alleyway wasn’t the time to have this happen (there’s never a good time). I could feel the bile rise in my throat: someone could see me like. Someone would see my like this. No one is supposed to see me like this.

_(No one is supposed to see me at all.)_

Cowering (still breathing, can’t stop that, but deeply, if that makes a difference), I watched the silhouettes pass with apprehension, dark shadows that could be one of a million things. I hoped it wasn’t him: he shouldn’t have had to see me like that.

_(He did. He always does. He always finds me. He always helps. I hate it.)_

A deluge started just as the shaking began to seep from my body; the cold was enough to warp the anxiety into pain and jolt the shivers into beginning again. Just as I thought it’d ended, I was trapped again...

_(and again and again, why won’t it just stop?!)_

...but the worst of it was gone - the screaming in my mind was now just a faint buzz (always the buzz, like the machine, like your memories) and the familiar creaking of old metal had returned; that much was familiar. That metal sound, the whirring, the buzzing, the painful shriek of metal on metal, it followed me: I’d learnt to accept it, maybe even like it.

_(It reminded me of who I am. Who I was. Who I want to be.)_

Life, laborious and painful as it may have been for me, was a blessing I wasn’t willing to sacrifice just yet - it reminded me of that. Even in that alleyway - that alleyway that still sticks in my mind - where everything went to crap, where it continued to go to crap just a few minutes later…

_(Guns, explosion, BOOM!)_

...I refused for that day to be the end of my life. I wouldn’t let it be. I don’t have many aspirations for this life, I’ve long since learnt that none of them will ever come transpire (life doesn’t like me very much) but there is one thing I’ve still got to do-

_(Him, him, him, him, it’s always him.)_

And there’s only two ways to describe me, it’s easy: honest, stubborn. People call it blunt nowadays but I stick by what I say (I’m no worse than him, anyway), especially when I say this to you:

1) You do not want to know who _he_ is

2) You do not want to know where _I_ came from

3) You do not want to know _what_ happens next

4) And you do not want, _no matter what, no matter the reason,_ to meet me.

Ever.

Because it’s not a pretty story to tell and I’m not a pretty person to tell tell it.

Life is easy for some…

...It never is with me.

* 

_Fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck,FUCK!_

I woke up with the tingling sensation that this was familiar. I remembered back, crawling deep into the crevices of my memory, to find my latest memory. It’s…fuck.

_(Guns, explosion, BOOM)_

I looked down at my hands for signs of blood - signs that _it_ had returned - but found nothing. Nothing, except…well, nothing. Nothing was there. A right hand, muscular although skeletal, one that I could stare at with the same sick fascination as I had before, and then…nothing. No left hand. There wasn’t a left hand. The metal, the familiar creak, it was gone.

_(Fuck. SHIT! It’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone, it’s gone)_

I looked at the vacant area with bile in my mouth, eyebrows drawn in like a finger pulling a trigger; what the fuck had happened? Why didn’t I remember? So much must have happened. My eyes travelled up the vacant area until they reached my shoulder, where the metal mass was evident, ruined beyond repair. Wires hung out like confetti, sparks flew like fireworks, colours boomed like flares.

 _(Do you remember that time,_ Stevie _, when we went to see the fireworks. They were so beautiful, weren’t they?)_

I looked up, trying to push back the sickness churning in my stomach when I thought of the arm that was spilling like a glass of water just a little too full, and felt myself suck in a breath. This was the alley, _the_ alley. The one I’d been in before.

 _(Do you remember,_ Steve _, when I punched that guy for you in an alley? The piece of shit deserved it.)_

Memories came back in flickers but no of the ones I wanted. Flashes of _him_ back in the day, back when I-

_(Is it me? Is it really me? Because the years just don’t add up right.)_

-I was younger. Back when _he_ was younger.

 _(Stevie, Stevie. Remember him. Stevie, that’s_ his _name.)_

Everything paused, for a just a moment, and it all flooded back. I hissed in pain as my skull crushed inwards, imploding, a thousand memories burning my synapses until it was just…finished.

_(Over, over. It always ends, even if you don’t remember that. Even if you don’t remember it. You never remember it.)_

Rain splattered down onto the pavement, familiar puddles pooling with black liquid, a concoction of tar and water and dirt and scum. Just like me. Scum, I thought, was a rather apt title for me. Far better than soldier.

 _(I was never a soldier. I just followed_ him _, always followed him. And if I ain’t following him, I’m not a soldier. I’m a murderer, out and in. Love the blood, love the violence,_ love _it.)_

The memories faded again and left that familiar buzzing, almost blurring out the familiar whir of mechanics and the screaming scratch of metal against metal. I was forgetting again, I knew that. I couldn’t stop that. I let them go, let them flood out.

_(STEVIE! I DON’T WANT TO FORGET. I DON’T WANNA!)_

The Soldier let them go, the Soldier always let them go. Because the soldier knew what was good for him. And it sure wasn’t _him_. _He_ only caused pain; so much pain.

_(Remember the bridge. Remember the agony. Remember, remember.)_

I stared at the gap and ignored as the screams began. Distant cries, a plea for help, a man that screamed “Steve” like it was his last words.

 _(It’s you. IT’S YOU! Stop, soldat,_ remember _, it’s_ you _)_

You should know now, I think it’s rather important, the four things that keep me going at this moment in time.

1) I screamed not because of the present but the past.

2) I always scream for the past for I am not present enough in the present.

3) You do not want to hear me scream for it is like listening to the sound of a whale crying for its mother across the sea.

4) You _do not_ want to see me right now for you would see the man that has been broken over and over again.

And you don’t want to see a man that’s broken. You think you do, you think you want to know what it looks like, you _think_ that it will satisfy that sick-inducing curiosity and fascination and temptation. Until you see it.

_(You see a dying man. You don’t notice it but he’s dying, he is.)_

You see the man that has been broken and you realise…

_(oh god.)_

…that you would never wish that sight upon anyone.

_(The piercing screams that follow are the first time I can recall screaming for the present and not the past.)_

* 

_AAAAAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Please, oh god, please. Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease._

It stopped. I was in an alleyway; the alleyway. Where was I?

 _(The alleyway,_ the alleyway _.)_

I was shuddering, I didn’t know why, I didn’t know how to stop it. I knew my mouth was open, hanging open, emitting the racketing screams that changed New York forever. Others were screaming, all with metal squares in their hands, frantically screaming into the metal squares into their hands, screaming to a man that he couldn’t see.

_(They’re staring at me. They’re STARING AT ME, STEVIE! STOP THEM, STEVIE! STOP THEM!)_

I rocked back and forth, knees huddled to my chest when the whole world exploded into chaos. Red, blue, white, red, blue white-

_(Red, blue, white. You’re here, Steve, you’re here!)_

Round, it was so round, cutting down people in his way, knocking them backwards until the metal squares had fallen out of their hands.

_(Stop it, you’re hurting them. Don’t hurt them for me, Stevie. Please don’t.)_

I screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed until there was nothing left in my lungs and I burned out into a faint whimper. Rocking back and forth, back and forth, until all I saw was the blur of tears and the glow of pain spurting from the broken arm - gone arm.

_(Wasn’t it replaced? Didn’t that…WHY CAN’T I JUST FUCKING REMEMBER!)_

“Buck! Buck, please. Stop for me, Buck. Come on, pal, stop screaming. You’re safe with me, you’re safe with me.”

 _(I’m not Stevie, I’m not safe. I could kill you. I’m_ going _to kill you.)_

“Pal, please! ’Til the end of the line, right? Just wake up. Oh, god just please I wake up.” I heard him, I did. I even stopped screaming but the screaming was still going on. I closed my mouth but the screaming just wouldn’t stop. I shut my eyes but the burning wouldn’t end.

_(He’s still talking at me, begging. But I stopped screaming. Why can I still hear it? Why is he still begging me to stop?)_

There was crashing, banging and the rattle of gunfire. The screams emanating now were clearly not only my own. People fled, screams piercing the still, cold air. Children stared at wide, tear-filled eyes, watching the world around them burn.

_(Run, soldat. Run.)_

I listed four things in my head, I always listed these things. These things helped me. Always helped me. They still help me.

 _(Get away from him, soldat, he’ll ruin you. He’ll_ ruin _you.)_

I listed them quick and efficiently, staring blankly up at the men surrounding me. Black uniforms, guns raised, blocked from my vision by the red, blue and white. I listed them again, preparing myself for the oncoming storm. I listed them so I’d never forget.

1) Gun’s first.

_(Bullets scream, hit bodies. Not mine.)_

2) Men down second.

 _(Kill them. Survival of the fittest, soldat._ Kill them _)_

3) Run third.

_(Quickly. Jump. Around the street. Up the building. Over the barrier. Gone.)_

4) Last thing, soldat, the chair.

_(But where’s the chair gone?)_

* 

I woke up in the…

alley.

That came as no surprise to me. I sat, rocked back and forth, and watched with the dreaded paranoia at the familiar surroundings. I brought my one, flesh arm around my knees and huddled them to my chest. The hiss of wires failed to tease me, though. I looked to my left and saw…

_(Black. Black? What is this?)_

A cap. Over where the arm had once been: black rubber, I assumed. Something had made the arm into a stump, black and sleek. I liked it: I liked it a lot.

_(I don’t like many things. I don’t like anything, really. I liked survival, though. I’m not really sure why. There didn’t seem like much reason to survive)_

Rocking, faster and faster, I let my eyes dart from the brick walls to the stone floor. My eyes caught on my feet-

 _(Shoes,_ shoes _. Why are shoes so important?)_

-and I saw trainers. Sleek, black, with flecks of white in the fabric, ingrained like blood. They felt familiar, yet completely out of comprehension. I reached out, touched the stitched fabric and revelled in the comfort. Made for running, I could tell, made for _me_ running.

_(But running from what?)_

More importantly, it wasn’t just my shoes that had changed but my outfit too. Perfect seams, black fabric, form-fitting; made bespoke, no doubt. An outfit for fighting, malleable, freeing, a colour that would allow me to blend into the shadows.

(But you blend in anyway.)

The shaking didn’t end,

(It never ends.)

But the fear seeped away like blood from my wounds. I lapped up the silence like it was water for my dry throat or food for my shrivelled stomach.

(No, that’s how it’s supposed to be. So…so why do I feel full?)

Staring at the ground, I analysed the familiar lines in the concrete, I could count the number of dents, lines and patterns in the floor.

(323 cracks, 8 large dents, 18 muddy footprints, 3 rotting bananas.)

1 shadow.

(Not mine.)

“Bucky? Bucky, is that you?”

(Shake your head! SHAKE YOUR HEAD! Soldat, comply!)

I nodded.

( _Fucking scum_ , we should have left you were we found you.)

“Oh my god, Bucky. I didn’t - I didn’t think we would find you again.”

(There were arms wrapped around me, soft, familiar, strong. Stevie’s. Oh my god, Stevie, I’m so sorry. I said I’d come back. _I said I’d come back_ )

“Steve?” I croaked, my arms tightening around him without permission.

(You need permission for your actions, soldier. You will comply).

“Steve,” I repeated, my voice hoarse with disuse, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” I didn’t know what I was apologising for at the time. It was all so blurred. All the memories, the present, the past, the future, all jumbled up in a gruel-like soup that no one had any hopes to comprehend.

(I don’t understand myself now. My brain…they fucked with me. Let’s leave it there.)

“Hey, pal? Are you remembering?” I shook my head. I wasn’t. It was all so blurred, so _fucking_ blurred. I could feel it in my grasp but I couldn’t open my fist to reveal what was in my clutches.

(Do you remember? The time the metal malfunctioned and your first cramped and wouldn’t let go? There was an arm in it that time, when you finally opened it, it was only a bone. The skin had melted away. Do you think, if you open it now, that the memories are going to be burnt too?)

“Okay, that’s fine. Do you remember the list? Do you want me to take you through it?” I nodded, in answer to which one, Steve had no way of knowing but he began to list things out anyway.

(Stevie, my anchor, he’ll always remind me.)

“1) If you forget, don’t run. You trust Steve Rogers. He is the one you trust.”

(Nod, trust him. You’ve always found that easy, haven’t you.)

“2) Whatever’s happened to your arm, it’s not important. You hate it anyway,” Steve huffed a laugh and continued.

(He’ll always continue. He’s stubborn as a fucking mule.)

“3) Make Steve Rogers tell you your recent memories. Ok, so, um. Well, we were in Wakanda and you got your new gear, got the triggers out of your head and you got a new arm. We’d just gotten off the quinjet in New York when you ran.”

(Come on, Buck, for fuck’s sake: just stop running.)

“4) No matter what, don’t kill Steve Rogers. Your head might tell you to but you’re not allowed to. He’s your little punk.” Steve can’t help but choke on his words. I stare at him in amazement, how he can manage to talk about himself with such detachment. “You told me to say that to you. Does it help?” I nodded, Steve always helped. The memories weren’t back, the fist wasn’t open but he was there. Stevie was there.


End file.
